


Controlled chaos

by Redpandalavellan



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, POV Cullen Rutherford, POV Fenris (Dragon Age), POV Hawke (Dragon Age), oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23445844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redpandalavellan/pseuds/Redpandalavellan
Summary: A collection of oneshots surrounding my champion, Thedran Hawke
Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke, Hawke & Varric Tethras, Male Hawke & Varric Tethras
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	1. Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Carver have a somewhat difficult relationship, and when has alcohol ever helped?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another from the inktober promt list, this time the prompt was "Tread"

The group had retired to the hanged man, ready to spend the days heard earned coin on an absurd about of ale. They were gathered around a table, talking and drinking while Isabella went to collect the next round.  
"Hawke-" Varric began, and both brothers turned their head in his direction.  
"No, not you Junior, I meant big Hawke."  
Carver groaned in frustration.  
"For Andraste's sake Thedran, why won't you just use your name?"  
Hawke glared at him.  
"Makers balls, we've been through this before, Carver. I just prefer Hawke. What's your issue?"  
"Its confusing!" Carver insisted, as the drinks arrived at the table. "I'm Hawke too you know."  
Hawke grabbed a flagon and shook his head.  
"It's not confusing at all, just assume any time someone says 'Hawke', they're talking to me."  
He flashed Carver a grin.  
"I am, after all, the superior Hawke. What would they want with you?"  
Varric and Isabella laughed and Carver looked murderous.

  
"Don't take it personally," Varric attempted to placate him, "Hawke is older."  
"And bigger." Isabella chimed in at which point Carver scowled incredulously.  
"Bigger? We're the same height."  
"That's not what I meant." Isabella replied with a suggestive grin, and Carver turned beet red.  
"You don't mean- How do- When did-" He sputtered into his ale and Hawke replied with a wink and a grin in Isabella's direction.  
"Ugh! I don't want to know." He hung his head to avoid their eyes and raucous laughter filled the table once more.  
"There you have it, Carver. Bigger, stronger, better." He shrugged. "Just accept it."  
Carver put his drink down on the table a little harder than necessary.  
"Stronger? That's bullshit. You've never held a sword in your life." He crossed his arms defiantly, refusing to give up ground.  
"A staff is no picnic Carver." He replied and Carver narrowed his eyes.  
"Prove it then." He put his elbow up on the table, arm extended, and Hawke raised his eyebrows in surprise.  
He downed the rest of his drink, and grasped Carvers hand.  
"You're on."

  
As soon as he said the words his hand was thrown violently to the left, and it took all his strength to bring it upright again and hold it steady. Carver was clearly desperate to win something over him, putting all his strength into the petty struggle. It was true, Carver was stronger than him, he had no hope of winning this. But he wasn't about to let him have the satisfaction of beating him.  
After a few seconds of concentration, when he could feel his arm about to give way under the fierce downward pressure, he gathered the magic through his fingertips and allowed a small spark of lightning to cross between their palms.  
The shock made Carver flinch and relax his grip, at which point Hawke threw all his remaining strength into slamming his hand down onto the table.  
He grinned at Carver.  
"I win."

Carver went red once again, this time in anger.  
"Hey! That's cheating!"  
Hawke shrugged.  
"Says who? You use your muscles, I use my other talents."  
Carver stood up from the table with clenched fists and for a moment Hawke thought he was going to be punched, but then he simply stormed past towards the entrance of the tavern.  
"Bloody mages!" He muttered as he left, and the rest of the table watched him go.  
"You know Hawke," Varric said, turning back towards him. "You don't half like to tread on his toes."  
Hawke was already eyeing the half filled tanked that Carver had left behind, and picked up for himself.  
"He'll get over it." He muttered as he raised the cup and downed its contents as he stood from the table.  
"I'll get the next round."


	2. Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The expedition to the deep roads promises to make them all rich, and Carver wants in. But Hawke isn't so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another inktober oneshot, the prompt being "Treasure"

"Are you planning on taking Carver with you?"  
They were stood to one side, called over by Leandra while the rest of the expedition team waited to depart.  
"I hadn't decided yet." Hawke replied truthfully. He knew Carver wanted to go, but over the past months he'd managed to gather quite an accomplished group who could help him out instead.  
"I'm going. It'll be fine." Carver said forcefully, but Leandra only got more upset.  
"It's not fine. You can't both go. What if something were to happen to you?"  
She turned to try and appeal to Hawke directly.  
"You I understand wanting to do this, but leave your brother here I beg you."  
Hawke felt slightly guilty at letting her get so upset, but Carver forged ahead nonetheless.

  
"I said I'm going." He stated matter of factly.  
"Besides, if we're so bloody afraid of templars, I should go and he should hide."  
The anger in his voice slightly surprised Hawke. He had no idea Carver cared so much about trudging through more blight infested land. Maybe he simply wanted to get first pick of whatever treasure they found down there.  
"Well you're not going to be able to take everyone anyhow." Bartrand cut in, clearly losing his patience with their little side track.  
"You'll need to decide."

  
He turned around to face the assembled group of expeditioners, mostly dwarves from Bartrand's guild. Varric going with them was a given, since it was his brother's expedition, and Hawke was happy for the friendly company. Anders used to be a Grey Warden, and might be helpful down in the deep roads, but Hawke didn't trust him as far as he could throw him after learning he was basically a more charming abomination. He distrusted Merrill for similar reasons after seeing her wield blood magic so freely. One mage was more than enough for this trip.  
He considered asking Aveline to go with them, but she had a position among the city guard now that he couldn't ask her to abandon, and he doubted she was keen to face darkspawn again after what happened to her husband. Fenris on the other hand, he wouldn't mind the chance to get to know him better in some tighter quarters.  
He turned to glance at Carver and his mother. She was right, he couldn't take Carver into such a dangerous place. They might both never come back, and where would that leave her? He gritted his teeth, knowing Carver would hate him for this and steeling himself for the inevitable argument.  
"Fenris and Isabella will come with us."

  
"Oh thank the Maker." His mother sighed, and Carver immediately turned to scowl at him.  
"What? Now you're just being daft. You need me down there!"  
"Trust me." He replied. "This is no picnic. I'd stay if I could."  
The words weren't exactly true, he would rather brave the deep roads than spend another night in that hovel with uncle Gamlen, but he hoped Carver would see some kind of reason.  
Of course he should have known better.  
"So I get left behind to mind the chickens?" He retorted angrily. "I see how it is."  
"Carver, your brother is only doing what he thinks is best." Leandra attempted to placate him, relief clear in her voice, but Carver remained steadfastly irate.  
"I know. I guess I'll have to do the same."

They trudged through the dimly lit passageways, clothes already covered in blood and dirt. Days they had been trapped down here, left for dead by Varric's brother Bartrand. Hawke would be angry, if he wasn't so damn tired. They were running low on supplies and had to start ripping up shirts for bandages, as Hawke had quickly become too exhausted to heal the numerous wounds they picked up as they fought their way through the deep. It was a small miracle nobody had caught the blight already, and Hawke wondered if perhaps he should have invited Anders after all. If not for his grey warden abilities, simply for his extra healing spells.  
Treasure clinked in each bag they carried, gems and fine weapons, as much as they could find. They'd be rich beyond measure if they ever found a way out of here, but golden trinkets did little to fill an empty stomach.  
He thought back to the last conversation with Carver. He regretted that their last words could be angry ones, although most of their words all their lives had been angry so he supposed it was fitting. If his brother hated him so be it, at least he wasn't trapped down here with them. At least if they never made it out his mother wouldn't be alone.

He finally stepped back into the house, barely registering the figures stood in front of him as he threw his treasure filled pack to the floor with a heavy thud. He wanted nothing more than a warm meal and a soft bed, but this would simply have to do. Better than the deep roads anyhow.  
"So, you're back."  
He heard Carvers voice filled with disdain. No happy family reunion then.  
His mother ran up to him with a panicked expression.  
"Oh thank the Maker!" She sighed. "Please talk some sense into him."  
He looked up at Carver, towering over him slightly in heavy templar plate. The sight took a few moments to comprehend, like there was a gap in his brain the knowledge simply refused to cross.

  
"Carver, what are you wearing?" He asked incredulously, and Carver replied in the same defiant tone.  
"I've joined the templar order. There's no point in trying to talk me out of it. It's done."  
Hawke couldn't believe what he was hearing. He leaves for a few weeks and Carver runs off to become a templar? Had he gone mad? Perhaps he had passed out in the deep roads and this was some strange fade nightmare. He half expected a demon to jump out and tempt him from any corner.  
"You realise that you're related to an apostate?"  
"See mother?" He turned with a smugly satisfied expression. "I told you he'd only think of himself."

  
The remark made Hawke's blood boil. He was being selfish? Bethany was a mage, their father was a mage. Carver had grown up seeing how they ran and hid from templars. How they were hunted by those who wanted to take them away, tear their family apart simply because they were born with magic. And he went and joined them. A petty argument and a desire for attention was all it took for him to join the very order that wanted his family imprisoned, and yet he was the selfish one?  
"I want to be someone. Like father wanted. Like I want. This is my chance."  
"Carver please!" Leandra begged. "The order is so dangerous."  
"I'll be fine mother." He replied, his voice gentle for the first time since Hawke returned. "You don't need to worry about me."  
He turned back to Hawke with a scowl.  
"And you don't need to worry about me turning you in. I know the value of family." He said pointedly, and then marched out of the door.  
Leandra fell to her knees with sobs, and Hawke quickly knelt to comfort her.  
Carver wouldn't know the value of family if it hit him around the head, and Hawke had half a mind to.


	3. Husky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is adamant that there's nothing special between him and the broody elf that now accompanied their adventures, but Varric knows him far too well by now for that to stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill by now, the prompt was "Husky"

"How would you describe broody's voice?"  
It took Hawke a moment to realise the question was directed at him. They were sat in the hanged man like most evenings, Varric scribbling away in a small notebook while Hawke nursed his sixth flagon of the night. He turned his head in surprise, facing Varric with a raised eyebrow.  
"Broody? You mean Fenris?"  
Varric laughed.  
"Yes I mean Fenris. Unless you're hiding another moody elf around here that I don't know about?"  
"If only." Hawke muttered into his drink, but ignored the questioning glance from Varric.  
"Why are you asking me? You're the writer, you've heard him talk plenty."  
He gestured with his tankard as he spoke, spilling some on the table, and after a brief pause, decided the appropriate course of action was to prevent this unfortunate accident from repeating by downing half of the cup.  
"I just thought you might have some extra insight." Varric replied with a smug grin that made Hawke narrow his eyes suspiciously.  
"And what's that supposed to mean? There's nothing between me and Fenris." Hawke replied defensively. Varric held up in hands in a mock surrender, quill still grasped in the crook of his thumb.  
"I never said there was!" He paused for a moment, before continuing with the same smug grin. "But don't lie to me Hawke, I've seen the way you flirt with him."  
Hawke scoffed into his ale.  
"I flirt with lots of people, I'm a flirty person. You've seen me flirt with Isabela."  
"That's true." Varric cocked his head to one side. "But I know you Hawke, it's different with him. I haven't seen you flirt with Isabela once since he showed up."  
Hawke glared at him silently over the top of his drink, but his inebriated mind was already wandering.  
"Just humor me then Hawke," Varric prompted, "how would you describe his voice?"

The two of them were together, alone in his stolen mansion. Hawke had come to check on him after the last mission and found him changing bandages on a wound on his arm.  
"Why didn't you tell me you got injured?"  
He protested indignantly, eyeing the gash with concern. Fenris only muttered in response, his voice somewhat hoarse from the pain.  
"I'm fine. Leave it be."  
Hawke had no intention of doing so.

"It's... rough."

"Here, let me."  
He reached towards Fenris' arm, preparing familiar healing spells. As he did so Fenris' eyes widened. He stumbled back, pulling away from Hawke as quickly as possible.  
"Don't you dare, mage!"  
Hawke sighed in exasperation.  
"I promise I won't turn you into a frog, just let me heal your arm before you hurt yourself worse."  
Fenris kept his distance, his hand clamped around the now bleeding wound, still staring Hawke down. Hawke narrowed his eyes, growing quickly bored with the pointless stand off, but it wasn't like he couldn't work from a distance. Without warning he quickly flicked his wrist, knitting the skin back together from across the room and adopting an expression of smug satisfaction.  
Fenris reeled backwards, and then sputtered angrily as he examined his now healed arm.  
"Why did you do that? I told you to leave it be Hawke!" He yelled. Hawke rolled his eyes.  
"You're welcome. You were being ridiculous. Now your arm is healed."  
"I demand you stop doing that! I won't have you using your magic on me for no good reason!"  
Fenris growled, his voice low with rage, and Hawke found himself privately glad that the elf didn't have his sword to hand.

"And deep."

"Oh you demand, do you?" Hawke replied with a mischievous grin, tilting his head back to look down at him.  
"And how are you going to make me?"  
Fenris marched closer, until they were inches apart, eyes locked, his lyrium markings glowing faintly blue in his anger.  
They stayed there for a moment, frozen, until Fenris suddenly turned on his heel. He walked a few paces away, crossing his arms, and the glow faded.  
"Forget it." He grumbled. "Do what you like."  
While Hawke may have been disappointed by the new distance between them, Fenris wasn't fast enough to hide the blush that grew on his cheeks, and the new view wasn't bad either.

He downed the remainder of his drink, lips curling into a grin.  
"And sexy."  
He rested his head on one hand, eyes distant, still lost in the memory. Varric chuckled and closed the notebook, rounding the table to prod Hawke into a standing position.  
"Come on, I think it's time I got you back to the estate. I can't carry you and I think Aveline may kill you before she drags you home again."  
Hawke rolled his eyes but followed Varric out of the door, staggering slightly in his movements.  
"Well?" Hawke asked, as they wandered towards high town.  
"Well what?"  
"How are you going to describe his voice when you write all this in one of your little novels."  
Varric laughed and wondered how much of this his friend would remember come the morning.  
"I think I'll just go with 'husky'."


	4. Stolen moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hawke gets back from the deep roads, he's able to make a fortune from the found treasure and buy back his family estate.  
> But becoming a noble doesn't stop him from getting himself into trouble, and of course Fenris is always along for the ride

They sprinted through the back streets, taking twists and turns that Fenris could barely keep track of, but Hawke seemed to know where he was going, and so Fenris continued to race after him.  
Their pursuers weren't far behind, shouting obscenities at them that only made Hawke laugh. How did he have the breath to laugh? Fenris wasn't unfit by any standards but Hawke was moving at a pace that almost left him behind. Varric and Aveline had already peeled off in another direction, unable to keep up the chase with their shorter legs and heavy plate respectively, which just left Hawke, Fenris, and half a mob of angry carta.  
How did they keep getting into these messes?  
No, he knew how. It seemed that trouble followed Hawke wherever he went, and on the rare occasions it failed to find him, he made some for himself.  
Fenris knew trying to steal from the carta had been a bad idea, he'd said as much, but when Hawke asked him to come along and help with that stupid grin of his... of course he'd said yes. Hawke didn't need Varric to charm the robes off a chantry priest.  
And now here he was, panting hard as he tried to keep up with the mage as they ran through lowtown to try and lose the men in the tight streets.

Hawke made a sharp left turn, and then ducked into an alleyway so fast Fenris almost missed it. He would have run straight past, had Hawke not darted out an arm, grabbing him by the pouldron and pulling him in beside him.  
Their pursuers turned a moment later and ran straight past their hiding spot, and once they were sure the group was well out of earshot, Hawke burst into furious laughter.  
Fenris wasn't laughing.  
In fact he was standing completely still, suddenly extremely aware of how very close he and Hawke were standing, pressed up against one another in the dark alley, and how the tattoos on Hawkes cheeks curled around the corners of his mouth as he smiled, and how his dark hair shined in the soft blue glow of lyrium, the only light illuminating the two of them where they stood.  
Hawke stopped laughing and finally met Fenris' gaze, his eyes moving down to linger on the markings on his chin, glowing faintly in the darkness of the midnight backstreets. Or was he looking slightly higher?

He moved his arm upwards and then winced, distracted long enough to pause the movement. Turning his palm over he saw a long midline gash, blood welling up from the shallow wound.  
"You aren't half spikey."  
He remarked with a smirk, and Fenris arched his neck to see the small amount of blood grazing the pointed edge of his pouldron where Hawke had grabbed him and dragged him into the alley.  
He said nothing, and Hawke proceeded to wipe the sweat from his face with the same bloody palm, leaving a smear of blood across his nose.  
He looked ridiculous. Yes, that was it. Not cute, or charming, or endearing, and certainly not attractive. He was an infuriating mage and that was simply all there was to it.  
Except Fenris still hadn't taken a step back, and his voice was still mute as his face remained so close to his that he could feel the heavy breath on his cheeks as his heart still raced. From the running, of course. Nothing else.

"Hawke?"  
The call came from a few streets away, Varric and Aveline having finally caught up with them.  
It didn't seem to phase Hawke in the slightest, his gaze still firmly fixed on Fenris' face with an expression that Fenris found uncharacteristically hard to read. But the distraction was enough for Fenris to regain his faculties, almost stumbling back away from the mage.  
"Over here."  
He answered, stepping out of the dark alley and into the dim light of the night time streets, hoping the glow in his markings and the redness in his face could be attributed only to the recent chase. Hawke followed, greeting Varric with a grin and a cheery wave.  
"We both managed to give them the slip then? Good. I'll get the item to our employer tomorrow."  
Varric nodded, and Aveline looked once more uncomfortable at being dragged into such an affair, but they all knew she did it because Hawke asked, like the rest of them. Varric smiled, perhaps the only one who enjoyed this kind of trouble just as much as Hawke did, and gestured with a hand to the mess smeared across his face.  
"That's a good look for you Hawke. Very dramatic."  
"Hm?" He looked confused for a moment, then touched his face and saw the spots of blood when he took his hand away. "Oh."  
He turned towards Fenris with a smirk, tilting his head.  
"So that's what you were staring at."  
Fenris turned his head sharply to the right, crossing his arms with a huff to avoid having to meet Hawkes inquisitive eyes.  
Silence followed for a few brief seconds, until he heard the quiet rattle of daggers in their sheathes as Hawke took the lead one more back towards the hanged man.  
"Come on, there's still time enough yet for drinks."  
Varric agreed enthusiastically, speeding up to keep pace with Hawkes longer strides, and Fenris followed. Despite everything else, he would always follow.


	5. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Fenris and Hawke are used to keeping others at arms length, with varying methods.  
> But sometimes, just for a moment, the masks slip.

"Oh."  
Hawke paused with one hand on Fenris' forehead, pushing his fringe away from his face to better heal the gash above his left eye.  
"What?"  
He saw the way Fenris frowned and fresh blood ran from the cut as the change in expression pulled on it's edges. He forced his mind back from the little round markings that had distracted his attention and picked up a damp cloth with his free hand.  
"You're hiding more markings under this mop of hair."  
He smirked, making a show of looking Fenris up and down from the corner of his eye as he wiped the dirt and dried blood from his face.  
"I wonder where else they're hiding."  
Fenris said nothing, only grunting and squirming uncomfortably as Hawke put his palm flat against his forehead and began to heal the wound with magic.  
"Stop grousing," Hawke threatened, "or I'll send you to Anders instead."  
Fenris stopped moving.  
"That's what I thought."

It didn't take long for him to finish healing the wound, and Fenris stayed sat quietly throughout. Not the quiet tension of a cornered animal this time, hoping that if they stayed still enough the predator would give up and leave them alone. He seemed relaxed.  
It was certainly a far cry from when they first met, when Fenris would recoil from his touch and become tense whenever he cast a spell.  
He wasn't sure what to call it, trust perhaps? They certainly weren't friends, still at each others throats as often as not, especially when other mages were involved. But Fenris time and again deferred to his leadership, and the more time they spent together the less convinced either of them were that what they had could be called hatred.  
It had become almost a routine for them, as much as Hawke could stand one. They would go out and fight whatever hooligans Kirkwall could throw at them, and Hawke would watch as Fenris swung that huge great sword straight through them, inevitably taking hits in return. Then they'd wander back into hightown, and Hawke would patch him up back at his rundown mansion, a bottle of spirit split equally between themselves and their wounds.  
Hawke had come to enjoy it.

"You know you really should do something with this."  
He remarked, pulling his mind back to the present and his hand away from the now healed wound, running his fingers through the fringe matted with blood.  
"Style it back, no need to hide such a pretty face."  
Fenris pushed his hands away, completely ignoring Hawke's flirting as usual and moving to clear the healing supplies from the table. Then he paused, and looked back towards the mage leaning lazily on the back of a chair.  
"Those gloves."  
"Huh?"  
Hawke paused for a half-beat of surprise, and then turned to look down at his hands and the plain black leather gloves he wore.  
"I've known you almost three years now, and I've never seen you without them."  
Hawke looked back up to meet Fenris' curious eye and shrugged.  
"They're an essential accessory, part of my look. I wouldn't be Hawke without them. Besides, they look great."  
He grinned, shoving his hands forward to show off their attractive qualities, but Fenris didn't seem inclined to abate.  
"But why do you never take them off? It must be easier to use magic bare handed."  
"Oh? Want to undress me now do you?"  
His expression slipped into a familiar smirk and Fenris couldn't hold back from rolling his eyes at the display.  
"First it's the gloves, you'll be after my trousers next."  
Hawke gave him a wink, the shit eating grin that Fenris had become so accustomed to still plastered all over his face. Fenris sighed.  
"Fine, don't tell me, it was simple curiosity."

There was a few seconds of silence as Fenris continued clearing the table, and then suddenly Hawke spoke.  
"I was burned."  
Fenris turned to see him still leant on the back of the chair, twirling his fingers absentminedly as he spoke in quieter tones, the earlier playfulness set aside.  
"As a child. Magic is a dangerous thing, and not so easily controlled when you're an emotional pre-teen."  
He did his best to sound unaffected, like a man simply recalling the facts of an old story, nothing more. But Fenris could see the way his eyes drifted past the furnishings he was staring at, the memory clearly pulling him in a direction he didn't want to go.  
"My father did his best to heal the damage, but it left behind an impressive set of ugly scars."  
The elf found his eyes drawn again to Hawkes hands, trying to imagine what could possibly be beneath the gloves to make a man with confidence to rival the maker, so self conscious.  
"So it truly is for vanity then?"  
Hawke laughed at the comment, waving his arm in his usual theatric manner as he replied.  
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm a very shallow man. Besides, if people see them they tend to ask difficult to answer questions, like where they came from and how I still have such good use of my hands."  
He smirked slightly, but the bawdy joke Fenris expected never came, as the mage slipped back into quiet and stared once more at his own hands, lost in some other thought.

Fenris seemed to pause again, looking from Hawkes face to his hands, before placing the items back down on the table and approaching him slowly.  
Despite the number of empty bottles they'd collected over the evening, neither was drunk, not even close, but they'd blame their actions on the alcohol anyhow.  
Hawke looked up as Fenris approached, quiet confusion entering his expression as the elf stood centimetres apart from him, reaching forward to close the gap.  
He grasped the cuff of the glove and paused, wordlessly meeting Hawkes eyes to ask for silent permission. When no protest followed he continued, pulling the gloves off and placing them on the table before taking Hawkes hands in his own.  
The skin was smooth and pale, untanned in contrast with his bare arms, until it gave way to patches of darker red. The scars were raised from the rest of the skin, rough under his touch as he ran his fingertips lightly over them, tracing the broken path from his wrist to his fingers, and then around to the underside of his palm.  
He'd seen marks like it before, on slaves that had displeased their masters one too many times.

"Do they hurt?"  
Fenris asked gently, and Hawke shook his head, laughing a little to forestall the strange feeling in his chest.  
"Only my pride."  
"Lucky."  
Fenris murmured quietly, and Hawke frowned, looking at him strangely as the elf kept his intent focus on the scars on his hands.  
A few seconds more of careful silence stretched between them, and Hawke found himself enraptured by Fenris' presence. The soft tones of his voice, the careful brush of his fingertips. He knew the elf was hot, that much he had been certain of ever since they'd met on that dark night in the alienage. But here in the dim light, body so close and touch so gentle, here he was beautiful.  
And then he was stepping back, as if suddenly remembering all the distance that should exist between them, the biting words and raised voices.

"Well." Hawke cleared his throat, quickly picking his gloves up from the table and slipping his hands into them, the familiar comfort helping to overturn sudden and strange exposure he felt, heart hammering in his chest. "Thanks for the drinks."  
Fenris nodded, a redness rising to his face to match Hawkes own as he averted his eyes with haste.  
"Of course. Thank you for..."  
Fenris made a vague gesture towards his own face, feeling the awkwardness in the break of routine that they'd allowed. The thrill and terror of uncharted territory.  
"Anytime. I'll see you."  
Hawke waved a simple and hasty goodbye, heading back out onto the street before the moment completely ran away with him. His mind spun like he'd just downed a bottle of dwarvern rum, and he found himself wandering slightly aimlessly before he regained his focus and turned towards his own estate.  
There was something different about the elf, something in three years he hadn't been able to figure out. Why he wanted to drop everything to help him out, why he always wanted to have him around, why the rare moments when his flirting was reciprocated left him lightheaded and grinning like a fool.  
It didn't matter what he said, for all his hatred of mages, Fenris was magical to Hawke.


	6. Ripe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Fenris doesn't want to talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one from the inktober prompts again, this time "Ripe"

The day had been long and dull. They'd patrolled a series of roads at a merchants request, and found nothing at all. No ambushes, no fights, no blood mages or overzealous templars.  
It was practically unheard of for them to go out without getting into some kind of scuffle, and Hawke would have welcomed the distraction. Of course it was just his luck that when he went looking for a fight there was none to be found. Instead he spent the day bored out of his mind, and dwelling far too much on recent events he would much rather forget through a haze of ale.  
He had tried multiple times to strike up conversation with Fenris, but he was shut down every time. The elf preferred to simply walk in grudging silence as Hawke tried anything to force some connection between them. Despite everything some part of him refused to give up.  
Fenris strayed to the side of the path and picked a strange looking fruit from a tree, swinging his sword to dislodge it from the branch. He caught it in mid air as it fell, although it bruised slightly on his metal gauntlet as it impacted causing him to grunt in disappointment.  
Hawke went to open his mouth, but Fenris heard it and cut him off.  
"Just leave me alone Hawke." He muttered, wiping the fruit off as best he could as they continued down the path.  
"Fenris I-"  
He tried again, but this only irritated him more.   
"I said leave it." He muttered. "I have no interest in a story about whatever strange thing you did with one of these while drunk. I'd rather not have my appetite ruined."  
He gave Hawke a dry look and Hawke only spoke up again in return.  
"I wouldn't-"  
Fenris growled in frustration.  
"Fasta vass Hawke! You've been pestering me with inane questions and observations all day! Am I not allowed a moments peace?"  
Hawke scowled and crossed his arms, remaining silent much to Fenris' instant relief.  
He sank his teeth into the fruit and immediately made a face of disgust as he tasted the bitter flesh.  
Hawke looked on smugly as Fenris realised his mistake and battled with the desire to spit it out and throw it away, against the desire not to let Hawke win.  
"I was going to say it's not ripe." Hawke replied with a smile and a shrug. "But I guess you already know that. Why should I try and tell you anything?"  
It was petty and he knew it, but somehow the small embarrassment made him feel better.  
He watched as Fenris deliberately swallowed the piece of fruit he had eaten, almost choking on it after trying to chew it as little as possible. He then threw the rest of the fruit to the side of the path, in a manner that tried to suggest he had simply decided he no longer wanted the rest, but it made Hawke laugh to see him try so hard to save face.  
He thought he saw Fenris react to his laughter, but the elf quickly turned his head away. Hawke sighed, the levity of the moment quickly broken and lost. He found his eyes drawn again to the fruit, tried once and discarded, and forced himself to shake his mind free of such thoughts before he began drawing unfortunate parallels.  
He strode forward ahead of the group with a purpose. Whatever they once had was gone, he needed to accept that, and the faster he walked the faster he could get back to the tavern.


	7. Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being born a mage has followed Hawke his entire life, and finally, he's had enough

Hawke stormed back into the estate, slamming the door firmly behind him. His mother looked up with a start from where she was stood by the fire but he didn't even acknowledge her presence. The dwarf stood by the hallway started to speak, but Hawke cut him off abruptly.  
"Not now, Bohdan." He grumbled, heading straight up the stairs towards his room where he knew he could be alone.  
He'd had quite enough of dealing with other people for one day.  
The trip through the fade had been ordeal enough, demons popping out of every corner to tempt him into possession. He wasn't fooled though, his father taught him better than that. Demons held only pain and false promises of power, and he'd been prepared to deal with them since he was a young teen.  
It was unfortunate for him that his friends couldn't say the same.

One by one they'd fallen right for the demons’ plea, willing to strike him down for their prize. Fenris folded at the offer of power to fight back at his former master, Aveline succumbed to the promise of a better life, where her beloved wasn't stolen from her.  
And Hawke could almost accept it, could almost forgive and forget that they'd tried to kill him to gain their own desires. After all, not everyone is prepared for the dangers of the fade like a mage.  
But when he finally returned to the waking world, successful despite their best efforts? Did they apologise? Beg his forgiveness for their betrayals? Did they fuck.  
Instead they argued with him, berated him, berated mages, for existing and allowing temptation to exist.

He stepped swiftly into the room and slammed that door too, gaining some measure of satisfaction from the heavy thud as the door frame rattled behind him.  
"Everything always comes back to magic doesn't it?"  
He ranted aloud, kicking the wardrobe as he passed, his boot making a dull thump as it connected with the lacquered wood and a few possessions fell from where they had been stored on top. He didn't even bother to look at them as he continued in his frustration.  
"It doesn't matter what I do, it doesn't matter what I say, I am a mage. That's all they'll ever see."  
He swept his hands across his desk, satisfied momentarily as he felt the destructive power, saw papers, quill and ink toppled onto the floor at his command.  
"Magic is dangerous, magic needs to be controlled, mages need to be locked up. We can't end up like dreaded Tevinter, can't have mages with free will and agency. What would Andraste say?"  
He was pacing now, making wide gestures with his arms just to have somewhere to direct all of his pent up energy.

"It's always the fault of magic. THEY give in to temptation, THEY betray me to bloody demons in the fade, and of course it's still my fault. Because I'm the mage."  
He balled up his fists, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, and still the frustration built in him like a geyser waiting to burst.  
"Well I don't want it! I never asked for it!"  
He brought his fist against the bed frame with a crack, bruising his knuckles and splitting the wood. It didn't make him feel better.  
"Fat lot of good magic has ever done for me! Running like rats from the Templars, always looking over our shoulders, never stopping long enough to let them catch the scent."  
The carpet beneath his feet began to sparkle with frost each time he took a step, but he barely noticed.  
"You hear me?" He directed the shout at the ceiling and the sky above it, head craned as if he could argue with the Maker himself.  
"I DON'T WANT IT!"

The sky failed to answer, and he simply stood in the centre of his room, breathing heavily, until he heard the soft knock on his bedroom door. He turned towards it, finally noticing the shards of ice that now coated most of the room after his tantrum, stark evidence of him finally losing control.  
"Thedran?"  
His mother's voice, soft and hesitant on the other side of the wood. He opened the door, tugging a little harder than necessary to dislodge the crystals formed in the hinges, and avoiding Leandra's gaze as she took in his reddened face and ruined bedroom.  
"You know I hate that name." He muttered, and instead of her usual protests, she simply put a wordless hand on his cheek, retracting her arm when he turned his head and shrugged off the touch.

"Can I come in?" She asked gently, and he left the doorway with a sigh, moving to sit on the edge of his bed as she followed him into the room. She took a moment to take in the cracked bedframe, possessions scattered around the room, and now frost and ice glittering on almost every surface before she tutted quietly.  
"What a mess you've made. Honestly, it's as if you're still a teenager."  
He thought about arguing, offering platitudes, promising to clean it later, or rather get Oriana to clean it. She must be practiced at cleaning up magical mishaps right?  
But he found he didn't feel like speaking at all, every ounce of himself driven out in his anger until he felt empty and numb.

His mother came and sat next to him on the edge of the bed after a moment, her voice low and sympathetic, like she would speak when he was a child waking from a nightmare. He supposed it was almost the same.  
"What's wrong, love? You've been different recently, don't think I haven't noticed."  
He didn't answer. What was there to say? He'd already shown well enough how he was feeling, and she took his silence as an invitation to probe deeper.  
"Is it boy problems?"  
Somehow her genuine tone still managed to make him chuckle, putting a hand over his face.  
"Boy problems? Mother, I'm not fifteen."  
Without even meeting her eye he could hear the smile in her voice as she tugged on the edge of his shirt, smoothing the fabric in an almost instinctual motherly gesture.  
"Oh come now, you know I know about that elf of yours, I wasn't born yesterday."

Fenris. His mother had mentioned him before, picking up on their conversations in the hallway whenever Fenris walked him home after a job or an evening at the tavern, seeing the glances they shared before parting ways and hearing the way Hawke spoke about his companion. He could never hide anything from her for long, and found that admitting to their small scandal had at least dissuaded her from trying to marry him off temporarily. But what was there to say now?  
"He left."  
"Oh honey-"  
She reached for his hand but he balled his fists, cutting off her attempts at comfort before she could even begin.  
"It's fine. I should have expected it really. I knew he hated mages, why should I be the exception?"  
And that was the truth of it. He blamed himself for his carelessness, for getting attached. Why did it have to be him? Every casual fling and one night stand over the years and he had to go and get attached to the mage hating ex-slave with a pile of issues as tall as a circle tower. What was he expecting? A house, two kids and happily ever after? He knew how Fenris felt, they'd argued about it many times over. So why in the word had he let himself think there could ever be more?

She was silent for a moment, and Hawke didn't raise his head. He knew he'd find only pity in her eyes, and he really wasn't in the mood for that.  
"I'm sorry he hurt you, but I won't pretend I'm not a little relieved. He wasn't a good match for you, an angry elf like that. The Selbrechs have a daughter, headstrong girl, but not hard on the eyes. Why don't I arrange a meeting?"  
Finally he turned to her with an incredulous expression. He should have been angry that she was so dismissive, once again meddling in his love life, trying to marry him off to some noble family. But honestly he just found himself impressed by her determination in the matter, that even now she saw an opportunity to find him a suitable wife.  
"You're still trying to match me up with someone? You really think you'll convince some girl to marry her family to a mage?"  
Hawke expected some argument, some justification for her continued efforts, but his mother only smiled.  
"It worked on me."

Hawke rolled his eyes, seeing how she reminisced wistfully on her younger days, when she eloped with his father and left everything behind. He couldn't see anyone doing that for him.  
"Mhmm, and what does that say about you then, mother?"  
"Thedran!"  
Her expression was thunderous as she scolded him, but it was finally enough to shake the foul mood from his mind, leaning back and resting on his elbows as he laughed. She allowed him his moment of levity, before putting her hand softly on his knee.  
"I'm sorry your magic makes things hard for you, you know I've always done whatever I could to give you a normal life."  
He met her eye and smiled gratefully, sitting up and placing his own hand on top of hers.

"I know."

There was a single moment of quiet, their eyes meeting to convey a million things unsaid over his lifetime. And then Hawke turned away, shrugging off the touch once more.  
"Well now, I've spilled my guts, I think it's time I get a little in return. I hope your love life has been better lately than mine."  
He heard his mother scoff as she stood from the bed.  
"The cheek! Asking your own mother about her affairs."  
"Oh come on, you said you were getting back on the wagon, did you not? It's my job as a good son to take an interest."  
He turned to her with his usual grin but she only glared.  
"This particular wagon is none of your concern young man."  
She replied indignantly, in a tone that encouraged no further discussion. But then a moment later she softened, her eyes wandering as she fiddled with the ends of her hair.  
"But there is... someone."

Hawke almost couldn't believe what he was seeing, his uptight mother blushing like a schoolgirl at the thought of a man. But before he could press the matter further she seemed to regain her focus, quickly turning and closing off any attempt at further questioning.  
"And that's all I'll say on the matter!"  
He held up his hands in mock surrender with a grin.  
"Maker forfend I ask you to divulge unsavoury details."  
A sharp intake of breath and a pointed look was her only reply, enough to remind him that his prim and proper noblewoman of a mother wouldn't tolerate such vulgar talk.  
"Now clean this mess up! I won't have you trashing the house like a druffalo! And don't think to get that poor girl to do it for you either, you can clean up your own messes, Thedran Hawke."  
He groaned at the use of his full name, suddenly picturing long hours of trying to put his room back together again by himself. But he was in no position to argue, only submitting with a sigh.

"Yes, mother." 

There were things he didn't know at the time. If he had, perhaps he would have dug harder, said more. Perhaps he would have admitted out loud how much her support meant to him, how he appreciated all she sacrificed for him and his father, how he loved her. But he said none of those things, only muttering complaints under his breath as he began to scrape ice from the wallpaper, and allowing his mother to walk swiftly away from the last conversation they would ever share.


	8. Frail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, there are no words

His heart pounded as he ran through the darkened building. The anxiety buzzed away at the back of his mind but he pushed it aside, now wasn't the time to dwell on it. She would be okay. He would find her, and protect her, and she would be okay. She had to be.

He rounded the corner and a fresh wave of stench hit him, coppery blood and rotting flesh. He fought the urge to gag but his attention was quickly captured by the man stood at the far side of the room, dressed in robes with a staff on his back.  
"I was wondering when you would show up. Leandra was so sure you would come for her."

His voice raised the hair on the back of Hawkes neck and the guilt settled deep in his stomach. He should have kept more of an eye on her, should have been faster.  
"Where is she?" He yelled, the anger rising into his voice. The man ranted and raved, clearly insane, but Hawkes breath hitched when he noticed the grey haired figure sat slumped in the chair beside him.

She stood and slowly turned, with a shambling unsteady gait, and he got a good look at her for the first time. A wedding dress, soiled with dirt and blood. Large weeping scars, where flesh had been torn and stitched together, like an old patchwork quilt. Ashen, grey skin and a face - his mothers face. Eyes sunken deep, unfocused, mouth hanging agape.

Hawke could do nothing but stare in horror, transfixed by the sight before him. The man raised his staff and began to chant, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should move. Around him distant sounds began to reach his ears, demons and undead horrors crawling their way out of the ground and his friends grouping up, drawing weapons, shouting commands, but he could barely hear them over the rapid pounding of his own heartbeat. He knew he should fight, flee, do something, but his body simply refused to move, the image before his eyes burning itself deep within his mind.

Before he knew what was happening, he found himself on the ground, Fenris' armoured weight on top of him, blocking a downward blow from a skeletal warrior with the flat of his blade.  
With a flare of blue light he dispatched the creature, and grabbed Hawke roughly by the shoulder, finally gaining his attention and meeting his eyes.  
"Hawke!" He yelled over the sound of whizzing arrows and clashing swords. "You need to move! Now!"  
Hawke paused momentarily, blinking away the shock, then took a deep breath and nodded, drawing his staff as he rose to his feet.

His eyes quickly scanned the battlefield for the mage, ready to use every ounce of rage within him to turn him into nothing more than a scorch mark on the ground. He loosed a series of fireballs at him, only for them to bounce harmlessly off some kind of magical barrier. Unpeturbed he continued his assault, his range and frustration building, only pausing to avoid or dispatch the demons that came too close to landing a blow on him.

After a few moments of this his attention was demanded elsewhere.  
"Hawke!" Aveline yelled, and he turned to see her fending off two demons, trying to hold her shield over Varric who was slumped against the wall.  
"A little help?"  
The mage would have to wait, he wasn't about to lose more people today and he needed to start acting like it. With a clearer head he ran forward and ducked behind Aveline's shield, already casting the spell to get Varric back on his feet.

He stayed with the group from then on, focusing his energy on dealing with the enemies in front of him, blocking all other thoughts from his mind to focus on his spells.  
When the mage finally entered the fray, Hawke leapt on him like a wild animal. His spells arced wide and crackled with uncontrolled energy, a reflection of the unruly emotions fuelling them, and as his companions dispatched the last of the demons behind him he took great pleasure in sinking the blade of his staff deep into the man's skull. He listened to the bone crunch with a perverse pleasure, and watched as blood and gore ran from the wound and stained the ground as he removed his weapon.

Slowly he realised the sounds of fighting had died, and been replaced by a slow shuffling approaching him from behind.  
"Mother!"  
She collapsed into his arms, and the feeling of his fingers sinking into the half rotten flesh almost made him vomit there and then. He collapsed to his knees, lowering her as carefully as he could to the ground.  
"I knew you would come." She smiled up at him, her voice hoarse but full of joy, and tears welled in his eyes. She had always been so strong. Carrying the family after his father's death, pushing them to flee lothering and the blight, dealing with Bethany's death. Now she was weak, barely able to lift her own head, so frail he felt he would break her if he moved too quickly. This couldn't be his mother.

"I tried to find you." He said desperately, his voice breaking, but still she only replied in the same contented whisper.  
"Shhh. Don't fret darling. That man would have kept me trapped in here. But now... I'm free. I get to see Bethany again... and your father. But you'll be here alone."  
He turned his head, unable to meet her eyes.  
"I'll be fine, mother."   
"My little boy has become so strong. I love you. I've always been proud of you."  
She smiled at him one last time, and then she was gone.

He stayed paralysed for a moment, the tears clouding his vision quickly turning to sobs that shook his whole upper body. Suddenly he lurched upright, a sickening thud making him wince as the body dropped onto the floor. He quickly staggered to the wall and doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor. His whole body shook, he felt powerless and small, like he would break apart at any moment. First Bethany, now his mother, what good was he if he couldn't even protect his own family? He sank into a crouch, forehead pressed against the cool stone wall, arms wrapped around his knees as he cried.

Varric placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, and slowly he brought his breathing under control. He stood, still facing away from the carnage, not able to face the sight, and wiped his face on his sleeve.  
"Something needs to be arranged..." He said absent mindedly, his voice distant, unrecognisable even to himself.  
"Aveline could you-?"  
"I'll sort it, Hawke."  
He nodded his thanks, everything suddenly muted and numb.  
"My uncle needs to be told. And Carver."  
He stared down at the blood on his hands, on his clothes, and the guilt burrowed deep into his chest.  
"Let's go."  
He left the room behind without a second glance, trying to hide his shaking hands. There was work to be done now, no matter how frail he felt.


	9. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 years pass, and Hawke tries to move on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when a writing prompt just seizes you by the neck at 3 in the morning? Yeah

Hawke was sat at a table in the hanged man, drinking his fourth ale and sharing small glances with a blonde man in the corner of the room. He had arrived after Hawke, taking a table with some friends, but it wasn't long before Hawke caught him staring, stealing glances when he thought he wasn't looking.  
Hawke wondered if he recognised him. The Champion of Kirkwall, the fereldan refugee who made a name for himself, gained noble status and an estate in hightown, fought back the qunari invasion, and yet for some reason still drank regularly in the shittiest bar in town.

The sound of the door opening made him turn his head, and Merrill walked in, stepping carefully around the broken glass by the door. Hawke groaned and put a hand over his face. Why did she insist on going everywhere barefoot? Especially here, where the floors were more stain than wood.  
"Hawke!" She said cheerfully, catching sight of him and coming over to take a seat at his table.  
"Hello Merrill." Hawke said, somewhat exasperated, raising his head to meet her ever smiling face. "What are you doing here?"  
"I came to see Varric, he's going to let me read some of his new stories and tell him what I think before he releases them."  
Hawke let loose a small laugh.  
"You actually read Varric's stories?"  
"Oh yes. They're really very good, although I don't always understand what he means by some things. He never explains even when I ask."  
She pouted slightly but Hawke simply shook his head with another laugh.  
"That's probably for the best."

Merrill continued chattering about something else but Hawke was no longer listening. He was glancing over her shoulder to see the blonde man looking from him to Merrill with a disappointed frown. The man finally caught Hawke's eye and inclined his head in Merrill's direction with a questioning look. Hawke replied with a smirk and a shake of his head, following up with a wink that he was satisfied to see made the other man blush.  
"Hawke?"  
Hawke's attention was called back to the elf in front of him, her having finally noticed his absent mind.  
"What are you-?"  
She turned unsubtly in her chair, and the blonde looked away too slowly to avoid her catching wind of the silent exchange between the two.

"Hawke...."  
He glanced back to meet her disappointed gaze, taking another swig of ale to attempt to disguise his distraction.  
"Sorry, what were you saying?"  
"You have to stop doing this."  
Her voice was sad, pitying, and Hawke rolled his eyes in response. He didn't need her judgement or her pity, and simply raised his eyebrows in his best imitation of innocent confusion.  
"Doing what?"  
"I'm not as clueless as you think I am, Hawke. We've all seen you, coming in here almost every night, drinking and looking for someone to... spend the night with."  
Hawke could almost laugh at the way she skirted uncomfortably around the topic.  
"No-one will say it but we're worried about you."

It didn't surprise him that his companions spent their free time gossiping about his activities. He was, after all, the most interesting thing to happen to this dive bar of a city. But he didn't expect Merrill to be the one to broach the subject to him. They had been at odds ever since he discovered her use of blood magic, and didn't shy away from telling her what he thought of it. Either way, he didn't need their meddling.  
"Well thank you for the friendly concern, but I'm fine."  
"No. You're not."  
His forceful assurances did nothing to dissuade the sad tone from her voice, as she fixed him with a sympathetic expression.  
"You can't keep kissing strangers and pretending that it's him."

He nearly spit the ale from his mouth as he heard her quiet plea, gripping his tankard so tightly his knuckles turned white. What did she know about his activities? What right did she have to comment? He didn't need her trying to psychoanalyze his behaviour, shoving her bloody claws into his business.  
"I said leave it Merrill, you don't know what you're talking about."  
His voice was low and angry, almost threatening, and she was quiet for a moment.  
She allowed Hawke a brief pause to fume sullenly and silently into his drink, before she spoke up once more.  
"He still loves you, you know."  
"Oh?" Hawke replied quickly with dry sarcasm. "Did a demon tell you that?"

She didn't rise to the bait he presented, only continued with a small smile and a wistful tone.  
"It wouldn't have to. I've seen the way he looks at you, when your back is turned, when he thinks nobody can see. He loves you Hawke, and I bet you still love him too."  
"It doesn't matter." Hawke replied quickly, brushing off the thoughts before they could settle. "Fenris made very clear where his affections lie, and it's not with me. I know well enough when I'm not wanted."  
Merrill was undeterred, pushing ahead with enthusiasm.  
"He still wears the favor you gave him, and your crest on his belt. He still follows you into battle, throws himself between you and the enemy. How do you explain all that?"

"I don't know alright!"  
Hawke snapped, his good mood soured. A familiar ache began to creep up his chest and he shoved it down with a vengeance.  
"I have no idea why Fenris does anything he does, go ask him if you're that desperate. Maybe he'll say more to you."  
Merrill returned to pouting for a moment and her reply came with hesitance and defeat.  
"I already tried but he refuses to talk about it."  
Hawke could have laughed at that if his mood wasn't so dark, though it gave him some small comfort to know that it wasn't just him Fenris refused to speak with.

"Just listen, Hawke, I know we aren't friends but if you just-"  
Merrill began again, but Hawke was done listening to her spiel, letting her dredge up old feelings better forgotten and buried. His voice raised, the alcohol lending strength to his tongue as he slammed his cup back down onto the wooden table in front of him, spilling some in the process and adding to the sticky covering of most furniture in the tavern.  
"You're right. We aren't friends. You're a child who's spent far too long listening to Varric's tales. Real life isn't like that, people don't fall in love and live happily ever after. Stop trying to make me see things that aren't there!"

Merrill finally went quiet and Hawke downed the rest of his drink, standing up from the table.  
"Enjoy your stories." He said dryly, not looking at her. "I have to find someone to 'spend the night with'"  
Merrill watched as he crossed the bar, slipping into a seat next to the blonde man with a well practiced grin and a comment she couldn't hear, though she saw the other man grin in return.  
Hawke turned his head slightly and watched as Merrill stood from the table, wiped her eyes, and made her way up the stairs towards Varric's room. A stab of guilt found its way into him and he frowned, until the man inclined his head towards the bar in an invitation for more drinks.  
He followed with a smile, eager to drown any ugly feelings in a river of booze. After all, what did she know? He thought, as the other man snaked an arm around his waist. He was doing just fine.


	10. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the years, both Hawke and Fenris have made mistakes, and each time they ran further away. Now they've stopped running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight variation on the canon reconciliation scene, becuase these boys have a messy relationship

They arrived back in the city, the terse silence between them leaving tension almost palpable.  
"Well," Varric began, taking the soonest opportunity possible to escape the awkwardness. "I'm heading back to the hanged man, you know where to find me if you need me."  
He walked away with a backwards wave of his hand, and the three remaining members of the group continued their uncomfortable walk into hightown. Quickly, Aveline also excused herself, muttering something about patrol schedules and disappearing into the barracks once more, likely just to search for Donnic.

Hawke was grateful for their departure, his frustration simmering under the surface for the past few hours as they had travelled home.  
Fenris nodded to Hawke and went to ascend the stairs to his own borrowed mansion, but turned with apparent surprise as Hawke didn't break off towards his own estate, but rather followed Fenris into his home.  
"Is there something I can help you with, Hawke?" Fenris asked, the annoyance in his voice barely contained.  
"Yes actually. We need to talk."  
Fenris didn't react to his statement, but Hawke didn't wait for an acknowledgement, simply followed him further into the living room until he stood against a wall, arms crossed in front of him.

"What the hell was that earlier?"  
He asked, finally letting the anger spill from his chest as his brow furrowed into familiar lines. It seemed every other conversation with Fenris started or ended like this.  
"What are you talking about?" Fenris muttered in the same annoyed tone as he set about removing his bloodstained armour, dutifully ignoring Hakwe behind him. The sight stirred something in Hawke, but he quickly quashed it. He was supposed to be angry.  
"Don't play dumb with me Fenris. You may as well have stuck a hot poker up his arse for how swiftly you told Zevran to fuck off."

"So that's what this is about? The sleazy assassin? I did you a favour getting rid of him."  
Fenris' voice was flippant but his stance was rigid, the anger plain to see for someone who knew him well enough.  
"Isn't that for me to decide?" Hawke pressed, and Fenris turned to look at him with surprise and almost disgust.  
"You actually wanted to sleep with him? I'm terribly sorry I interrupted your fun then, Isabela would be proud."  
There was venom in his voice as he turned once more away from his gaze, and it simply made Hawke angrier. How was he in the wrong?

"Don't try and bring Isabela into this." Hawke snapped. "You had no right to do that Fenris! Who I sleep with is none of your fucking concern anymore!"  
"Of course. I should stay in my place, a silent companion. Clearly I mean nothing more to you now."  
The words stung and he felt a thin layer of frost crystalising on his robes as his emotions heightened.  
"Oh fuck you! You left! You! And I tried everything. I tried to talk to you but it only made you angrier. So I gave you space, I waited for you to come round in your own time, but you just ignored me. And now, after years of waiting, I'm finally trying to move on with my life, and now you suddenly have something to say? No! You can't have it both ways!"

His anger gave way to a bitter sadness he'd been vying to suppress each time they spoke.  
"Andraste preserve me, I loved you Fenris. I loved you in a way I've never loved anyone, in a way I didn't know was possible. And you took that and you left. What could you possibly want from me now?"  
Fenris was left staring in stunned silence, and Hawke closed his fists and looked down. He took a moment to dispell the magical residues from his clothes before wiping at his eyes, the now cool fabric of his sleeve soothing his reddened face.  
"Ugh, Maker." He muttered, avoiding Fenris' gaze, embarrassed by his outburst of emotion.  
"Forget it. This was a mistake. I should never have come here."  
He turned to leave, but Fenris called out to him from behind.

"Hawke... wait. We never discussed what happened between us three years ago."  
Hawke stopped and turned around, and his face contorted into a sarcastic glare.  
"You didn't want to talk about it." He replied reproachfully, and Fenris seemed to shrink from the almost accusation.  
"I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me, I deserved no less. But it isn't better. That night..."  
He took a step towards Hawke, slowly, hesitantly, finally, attempting to close the distance between them.  
"I remember your touch as if it were yesterday."  
He looked as if he almost wanted to reach out to him, but then his voice faltered. The familiarity and longing replaced by cool detachment and a streak of bitterness.  
"But it seems you craved the touch of anyone who stood still long enough."

Hawke turned his head down and stared studiously at the floor, pursing his lips uncomfortably and crossing his arms tightly to quiet the urge to fidget.  
"Fenris... look I'm sorry okay? Nobody likes being turned away… and I'd never felt the way I did about you before. I thought I could force myself to forget it, lean into the anger and do anything to feel wanted again…. But I could never hate you, as much as I tried. I could never forget you."  
He didn't raise his head, but felt the change in the air as Fenris relaxed, taking another step forward and placing light fingers on his upper arm.  
"I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now."

He wanted to, by the Maker he wanted to, but it had been 3 years. He couldn't just forget what it had done to him, he couldn't just run ahead blindly once more into the same heartbreak.  
"I need to understand why you left, Fenris."  
He looked up once more into Fenris' face as he retracted his arm and turned away, struggling through a frown.  
"I've thought about the answer a thousand times. The pain. The memories it brought up... it was too much. I was a coward."

For as long as Hawke had known him the one thing Fenris had never been was cowardly.  
He recalled standing in the hanged man, watching Fenris' face as he saw Denarius again for the first time in years, his past finally caught up with him. He remembered how Denarius teased, the way he spoke about Fenris and ordered him back to his side, and suddenly everything clicked into place. His hesitance, his pain, his anger, and Hawke couldn't blame him. He found himself wanting to put his own fist through Denarius' chest, lyrium help or no.  
And he recalled that night once more. How he had quipped jokes, made light as Fenris tried to explain. How afterwards he had cajoled and badgered, insensitive and crude as he tried to provoke a rise, trying anything to bring Fenris back to his side. It was no wonder it had taken him so long to speak of it.

"If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt."  
"What would you have said?"  
Finally Fenris turned to meet his eyes, and Hawke's heart jumped as he spoke.  
"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."  
The sound settled for a few brief seconds, reverberating through Hawke as he tried to soak in every syllable, memorizing the words and the tone, the way Fenris looked at him. And then he smirked, leaning back against the wall and lifting his chin, radiating true happiness for the first time in months.  
"Oh, I don't know." He replied, tilting his head to one side and waving an arm in a careless arc. "This might be fun to hold over you a while longer."

Fenris stepped forward to close the gap, his face inches from Hawke's, so close Hawke could feel the gentle pull of the lyrium in his skin, drawing him closer.  
"If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side."  
Hawke pushed suddenly away from the wall, one arm snaking around Fenris' waist as his other hand grasped the hair at the back of his head. They stood chest to chest, barely daring to breathe until Hawke leaned forward with a low mutter.  
"Shut up and kiss me."  
He didn't need to be told twice.


	11. Prickly kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little tooth rotting relationship fluff because I seem to only write angst or pining for these two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly training myself to write short pieces for fun again rather than waffling like an idiot and never finishing my projects so hopefully I can keep posting stuff like this more regularly

"You're so... prickly." Fenris muttered as he pulled away from the kiss, sitting up with his legs still straddling Hawke's hips.  
Hawke let out a brief snort of laughter from where he laid on the sofa underneath him.  
"Prickly?" He replied with a raised eyebrow. "That's charming."

Fenris ignored the half hearted protest and ran his fingers again over the short bristles on Hawke's cheeks that slowly melted into the neatly combed beard on his chin.  
"Why don't you ever shave this?"  
"Close shaves aren't really my forté." Hawke replied, taking one gloved hand off Fenris' hip to gesture at thin air, and Fenris felt slightly ashamed at his questioning as he remembered the scars underneath.  
Hawke didn't seem bothered, though that barely meant anything. Fenris knew Hawke would die before admitting something was wrong, and in fact almost had on a few occasions when he refused to slow down and let someone see to his wounds.

"Anyway, don't you think a bit of stubble makes me look dashing?"  
Fenris rolled his eyes at Hawke's grin, but he couldn't help the smile that found it's way into his features and Hawke gasped triumphantly.  
"You do! You like it!"  
He lurched upright and wrapped his arms around Fenris' torso before he could object, pressing his face into Fenris' neck and placing rough kisses across his skin. Fenris struggled to push his head away with no real effort, biting his lip to squash a laugh as the hairs tickled his neck.  
"I'd prefer your face didn't attack me every time we kissed."

Hawke pulled back laughing, and as Fenris looked at him he was stunned for a moment by the thought that there was an every time. That he could kiss him again and again, whenever he wanted, till the end of time.  
"The danger makes it sexy." Hawke quipped, and Fenris smiled.  
A life around Hawke had certainly brought more than its share of danger, landing him in situations that just a few years ago he never would gave thought possible. He leaned forward again, a hand curling into the hair on the back of his boyfriend's head as their lips met and sharp bristles brushed his cheeks, and he decided it was worth it.


	12. Overgrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke hasn't seen Fereldan in years, but a request from a friend leads him down memory lane

He slowed and dismounted as he reached the small settlement, preferring to lead his horse inside on foot.  
He wasn't sure what made him come this way. He had justified the route to himself, saying he needed to stop and collect supplies, but in reality it was at least a few days travel out of his way and there were other villages with better provisions he could have visited more easily.  
He had been surprised when Varric's letter had reached him where he was skulking around in the Free Marches, asking him to come all the way to the Frostback Mountains to help this new Inquisition, when before now all advice had been 'stay the hell away'. He never could refuse Varric though.

He looked around the small village as he walked his horse through it, a fraction of the size it had been when he left it last. The memories returned then, the bustle and panic, no time to pack or prepare, trying to fit their whole lives in a few rucksacks. The gut dropping feeling when they first sighted the hoard approaching over the hills, desperately trying to outrun them in their trek north.  
They failed.  
Twisted though they may be, the darkspawn moved just as fast as men, and needed no stops for rest or food, quickly outstripping them in their flight.

He shook the thoughts from his mind, re-focusing on the dirt path ahead of him.  
Some few people had returned to their homes, attempting to re-build what had been lost. It had been almost a decade since they fled, but the Blight the hoard dragged with it as they crossed the ground was enough to render it barren for years more to come. There was little life left to be had here, and most knew it. Hawke certainly knew it.  
He paused at a small store, tying up his mount outside. It looked newly constructed, clearly replacing whatever building had been torn down by the darkspawn in years past. A middle aged man looked up from the counter as he entered and nodded mutely in acknowledgement. Once he would have recognised every face in the town, but the man was a perfect stranger to him. If the other man recognised him as he bought his supplies he didn't let on. Hawke supposed they had all likely changed a great deal in ten years.

He packed his saddle bags and continued through the town, it had been years and the landscape had changed dramatically but his feet still found the old paths beneath it all, the muscle memory leading him home.  
He drew to a stop at the end of a beaten path. If you didn't know it was there you wouldn't notice it at all, the ground reclaimed by shrubs and weeds, gnarled and dull. He tied his horse to a rotting fence post and slowly followed the path up to the house, if it could even be called a house anymore.  
It was more a pile of haphazard wooden beams, charred and black where they weren't rotten and moulding. The shapes of some rooms could still be vaguely made out, though the whole building was little more than a pile of kindling, the surrounding plant life reclaiming the land as it lay untouched for so long. Brown vines and ivy grew up the sides of the walls, various mushrooms sprouted from cracks in the wood, and the floor was carpeted with a sickly looking moss.

He pushed his way slowly into the house, careful not to disturb the structure too much lest it collapse on top of him. Everything of value had already been picked over by looters, and he expected nothing less. Even so he combed the house carefully, visiting every room, overgrown as it was with weathered vegetation.  
He couldn't explain why he lingered. He had left this place behind many years ago, he knew the town was gone and accepted Kirkwall as his new home. And yet he stayed, standing in the overgrown ruins of his childhood home, where he grew up, where so many memories he had of Bethany and his father were made.

Suddenly the air felt stifling and he backed out of the house, returning down the path to where his horse waited patiently for his reminiscent detour.  
He had planned to rest and spend the night here, but there were still a few hours of daylight left and he found he couldn't stay a second longer. He would camp out somewhere down the road instead, after all if Varric's letters were to be believed they should all be extremely concerned, and he should probably make haste. He mounted up smoothly, taking the reins and urging his horse into a walk towards the edge of town.  
It was time to leave this place behind him.

He didn't look back.


	13. A Knight in the tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has to be some downtime between saving the world, and the Inquisitor enlists the Champion's help in ensuring Commander Cullen is part of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend for this to be so long but.. it just ran away with me. Hope you enjoy

"Well well, Knight-Captain Cullen, it's been some time."  
Cullen suppressed a groan as the familiar voice entered his office. They were all aware of his presence, the fit Cassandra had thrown after he arrived almost enough to bring down the smithy, but until now their paths hadn't crossed.  
Not that Cullen had been avoiding him. Of course not. That would be childish, given the help he was offering to the Inquisition. He just simply had a lot of work to do, something the man would clearly know little about.  
"That's not my title anymore, you're well aware I left the order some time ago."  
He spoke without raising his head from the report he was reading, but he could hear the smirk on the man's face all the same, picture it in his head clear as day, like the dozens of times he'd seen it in the gallows courtyard, the mage walking around bold as brass even as the eyes of the entire order were on him.

"Ah, yes of course! We had that going away party for you! How could I forget?"  
Cullen paused, the confusion finally baiting him into lifting his head and looking at the man before him, leaning against the door frame, waving one hand as he spoke and managing to look thoroughly unbothered by anything at all. Just how Cullen remembered him.  
In fact despite the years since his time in Kirkwall, he looked hardly different at all. The same neatly trimmed beard, the same carefully tailored clothes, practical but stylish, the same smug expression. He had cut his hair, the dark brown now brushed back and reaching barely to his jaw instead of the long ponytail he used to sport through Hightown, but that seemed to be the only noticeable difference in close to four years of running from the Chantry after his support of the mage rebellion.  
Clearly apostacy agreed with him.

"Going away party? What are you talking about? You weren't even in the city."  
Cullen knew he'd hardly made friends in his time at Kirkwall, even among the other Templars. Meredith had him tucked firmly under her wing, stoking his hatred of mages after what had happened in the Ferelden Circle and blinding him to the more sinister aspects of her office. Nobody was about to be throwing him parties, especially not Hawke who had fled the city to try and protect the rebel mages more than a year before Cassandra came to recruit him. But the man in front of him simply grinned wide in a way that always made Cullen nervous.

"That doesn't mean I didn't keep up to date on what was going on! We had to celebrate your departure from our lovely city, didn't we? We weren't going to invite you, of course, but it was a fabulous party I assure you! Varric found a-"  
"Can I help you with something, Champion?"  
He cut the man off quickly, a familiar headache beginning to form behind his eyes of the like he hadn't experienced for some time.  
"Oh don't be like that, Cully! How could I come all the way here and not pay a visit to my favourite templar?"  
Before he could even reply, Hawke held up a hand and corrected himself.  
"Okay, okay. Ex-templar."  
He finally stepped out of the doorway, and Cullen had to snatch some reports from the desk before Hawke ruined them by perching himself on its corner.  
"I kept hoping to catch you in the tavern, but I should have remembered that you don't know how to have fun."

"I really don't have time-"  
He began in an exasperated tone, the one he saved specifically for Hawke, the one that had gone unused for blessedly long until now, but he was cut off before he could finish.  
"And that's exactly what I mean! No time for fun!"  
He leaned forward across Cullen's desk, forcing his face into Cullen's line of sight despite his best efforts at avoidance.  
"We could all die at a moment's notice, that's truer than ever these days. It's time to live a little!"  
He stood up straight again, brushing off his clothes and heading back towards the door.  
"Consider this an invitation to make up for the party. We're going to the tavern tonight, and you have to be there. Inquisitor's orders!"  
And before Cullen could protest, the mage had sauntered away towards the main hall.  
What was he supposed to do now?

After much deliberation on the truthfulness of Hawke's words, and how binding an order to go and drink himself stupid at the tavern would even be, he decided he should at least make an appearance. He could sit and talk for a little while, have a single drink, and then get back to his reports. Perhaps that would convince the both of them to leave him alone for a little while.  
That was his rationale as he entered the tavern to the usual assault of sounds and smells. The place was quite busy, every table packed with soldiers drinking and talking, even a few trying their hand at renditions of different local drinking songs to rival the bards quiet music. Lovely how the Inquisition causes people from all over to come together like that.  
The smell of hot food and ale reminded him that he hadn't eaten yet, and that he was hungrier than he realised, but before he could go and look for some food a shout demanded his attention.

"Cullen! You actually came!"  
The elven man waved him over from where they all sat around a circular table in the corner of the room, drinks already on the table.  
"I told you I get results, Inquisitor."  
Hawke replied with a wink, and Lyendrin laughed in response.  
"That you do. Let's hope you're so effective with the Wardens."  
Cullen pulled out a chair and sat down between Varric and the Inquisitor, who turned to look him up and down with a slight frown.  
"Not even going to remove your armour? Aren't you ever off duty?"  
Lyendrin complained, and Hawke was quick to cut in with a quip as always.  
"I told you before, my dear Cully is allergic to having a good time, it's very tragic."  
"Will you stop that?"  
He rounded on Hawke, his frustrations getting the better of him after a long day of headaches and cravings that left him feeling hollow, as if a stiff breeze might blow all his substance away. But the mage only grinned and adopted a look of perfect innocence.  
"Stop what?"  
"The stupid nicknames! I'm not your friend."  
He snapped rather harsher than he intended, and felt as an uncomfortable hush descended around the table.

"Who pissed in his ale this morning?"  
Varric muttered under his breath, and Hawke frowned with a pout.  
"You know, Cullen, that's very hurtful."  
He felt guilty then for his outburst. His troubles weren't their fault, and he'd sworn to himself not to let this affect his duties. Unluckily for him, today his duties included making nice with the Champion of Kirkwall for a few hours.  
"You're right. That was uncalled for, I'm sorry."  
Hawke’s eyes lit up with glee at his words.  
"Did you see that? I got an apology out of Cullen! This calls for more drinks"  
As Hawke briefly left the table to call for another round, Lyendrin leant across to smile at Cullen as he put a hand to his temple with a sigh.

"Thanks for coming."  
"Well, I was under orders." Cullen replied rather ruefully, and the Inquisitor made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes.  
"Oh, come on, you need to take a break every now and then or you'll go insane." He insisted, but Cullen only glanced at Hawke collecting an arm full of mugs from the bar, one for the Commander included.  
"And you think drinking with the Champion of Kirkwall is likely to help with that?"  
He asked, raising an eyebrow, but the Inquisitor didn't seem to catch his meaning.  
"He says you two knew each other, back in Kirkwall."  
"You could say that."  
He muttered in response, but let the matter drop as Hawke returned to the table and placed down the drinks. He took his gratefully, and as he watched everyone else take their own, for the first time he finally put his finger on what had been bothering him about the small festivities since he arrived.  
Each chair at the table was filled, and yet someone he expected to see was still missing.

"No Dorian tonight?"  
He asked, turning to Lyendrin with a questioning glance, but the elf simply shook his head as he lowered his cup.  
"No, just us. Hawke offered to spill the beans on your time in Kirkwall and I couldn't say no to that. Why?"  
"It just seems you two rarely spend much time apart these days."  
Dorian had become the Inquisitor's near constant companion since they established their presence in Skyhold, accompanying him out into the field more often than not, and spending a great deal of their free time together too. If the Inquisitor couldn't be found in his quarters or the garden, it seemed almost a given that he could be found in the library instead.  
Lyendrin seemed perturbed by the suggestion, however, taking on a defensive tone.  
"What of it? I enjoy his company, that doesn't mean I can't spend an evening without him."

Cullen would have let the matter drop, uninterested in prying into the Inquisitor's personal life, but Varric suddenly latched onto the new direction the conversation had taken.  
"No, I think Curly is onto something here for once, I've seen you and the Vint when we're out on work. Ogling each other."  
Lyendrin scoffed into his ale, rolling his eyes in another exaggerated motion.  
"Ogling? What are you talking about?"  
But Varric only wagged a finger in his direction with a knowing grin.  
"You forget, Inquisitor, I have first hand experience at spotting elves and mages who won't admit their feelings for each other."  
Hawke laughed at that, and Cullen saw how his thumb brushed over a gold band on his finger. He almost did a double take before catching Hawke's eye.  
"Hold on- You're married?"  
Hawke grinned.

"Yes, sorry boys, someone finally tied Hawke down." He showed off the ring on his finger to the table with some enthusiasm, before turning to Cullen once more.  
"Do you remember Fenris? Elven man, scowl like looking down the business end of a crossbow, lots of glowy tattoos, can't miss him."  
Then he seemed to remember something and his face lit up with excitement.  
"You must remember him! You caught us once in that alley round the back of the Chantry, he was-"  
"Yes! I remember." Cullen cut in quickly, before the story could go any further, already feeling the heat rising to his face at the memory.  
There was another chorus of laughter around the table, and the Inquisitor gave a look to Varric that suggested he wanted to hear the full story later. Cullen didn't care as long as he didn't have to be there to hear it.

"Anyway, we're getting away from ourselves!" Lyendrin cut in eventually. "This was meant to be an opportunity to hear more about Cullen's templar days."  
"Oh, right!"  
Hawke shuffled slightly in his seat, tapping the table as he decided where to begin.  
"Cullen was Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, second in command to Meredith, so it paid for me to keep an eye on anyone with a vested interest in landing me in the gallows."  
Cullen sighed a little uncomfortably, feeling the need to justify himself.  
"I never had anything against you, Champion."  
"Oh, no, of course not." Hawke replied with dry sarcasm and raised eyebrows. "You just wanted to have me locked up for the rest of my life, nothing personal."

He could feel Lyendrin's eyes on him, the judgement of his former self. He'd known this was a bad idea.  
"I was only doing my job." He tried to argue. "And besides, for your first few years in the city I had no idea you were a mage at all."  
Hawke grinned at that.  
"Really? How long did it take you to figure it out?"  
"Longer than I should be proud of." He admitted reluctantly to the others' quiet laughter. "Even when there were reports of magic, there were just too many refugees for us to reliably know who was where, and in those early years Meredith wasn't so..."  
"Batshit?" Hawke offered as he searched for the right word, and he couldn't prevent a small chuckle from letting slip.  
"Right."

"People were actually rather reluctant to inform on any magical activity in the slums, likely due to that mage healer that had set himself up down there."  
"Anders."   
Cullen was surprised to hear the clear venom in his voice as Hawke suddenly cut in. It was well known that the two of them had been friends of a sort, until everything had come to a head with the Chantry explosion some years ago. He knew the official line was that Hawke had personally executed Anders for his crime, but he had supported the mage rebellion anyway, and Cullen couldn't help but wonder exactly how much of what Varric had told Cassandra and put in that book of his was strictly the truth.  
But after seeing the way his anger rose at the mere mention of his name, he decided against further questions and he felt the need for a swift change of subject.

"Anyway, you made a rather convincing rogue, and by the time stories and rumours of your magic use began really circulating, you'd enough coin and influence in the city that you would have had to start wielding fire outside the chantry doors before we could take you in."  
"Ha!" Hawke laughed, his mood clearly far improved with thoughts of all the trouble he got away with. "And to think Carver spent so long telling me to be more careful."  
The mention of the name stirred yet more memories in him.  
"I knew the other Hawke better, Carver. He joined the Order just before the Hawke's really made a name for themselves in the city, and I was partially responsible for overseeing his training."

The Inquisitor seemed surprised by something he said, turning to Hawke with a puzzled expression.  
"Hold on, your brother was a Templar? But you're..."  
"An Apostate? Yes, Carver never really did see the irony."  
He sighed and stared into his ale as if it had somehow offended him.  
"Still, he didn't try to arrest me so I suppose that's something in favour of brotherly love."  
Cullen thought back to their days in Kirkwall, the young man so eager to prove himself, but also wanting to protect. Not only the people outside the tower but the mages themselves that they watched over, objecting to abuses regardless of the glares it gained him from some of his peers. He had remained in Kirkwall with the rest of the Order when Cullen had been recruited for the Inquisition, and as that thought solidified in his mind, his stomach dropped.  
"Your brother... is he...?"

"He's fine." Hawke clarified, and Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. "I had Aveline take him out of the Free Marches when the Order started getting a little too crazy for comfort."  
"I'm glad to hear it. He was a good Templar, hot-headed, but loyal. The other recruits quickly learned not to insult his brother."  
Cullen chuckled slightly, remembering the number of fights that had to be broken up and reprimands given before the recruits learned that calling Thedran Hawke a 'filthy mage' was likely to earn you nothing but a broken nose.  
But as he looked up from his ale Hawke was staring at him rather strangely.  
"He- What?"  
Cullen frowned in confusion.  
"What's so surprising? Your brother stood up for you, is that so strange?"  
Hawke snorted with laughter, taking another drink.  
"If you really knew Carver as well as you say, that's a yes. He was always more likely to stand up to me than for me. I don't think he's ever said more than two nice words to me in his life."

"Well, you know how brothers are." Cullen said with a shrug and a smile. "You fight like hell amongst yourselves, but Maker help the blighter who tries to do your family wrong."  
He thought of his own siblings then, how his sister had managed to project her yelling through the ink after her last letter. He should write them back, when he found the time.  
"It was clear to me he held a lot of respect for you."  
Hawke frowned into his ale, grunting non-committaly.  
"Probably just concerned with his own reputation. Can't escape being related to me after all."  
But Cullen could see that his mood had changed. He stared steadfastly down, avoiding the eyes of the rest of the table, the closest to subdued and quiet Cullen had ever seen him.  
Varric seemed to notice it too, and took the opportunity for a swift change of topic.

"What about you, Pointy? Do you have siblings?"  
"Me?"  
Lyendrin looked up from his ale, already looking slightly flushed though he'd barely had more than one drink.  
"No, it was always just me and my mother. But the clan is close, we're all a sort of family to each other, in a way."  
Cullen saw the way his gaze shifted into the middle distance, clearly thinking on old memories of his clan. It had been months since he left them, and from the way he spoke of his people it was clear that he missed them terribly, but a second later he raised his head once more with a smile.  
"How about I teach you guys a Dalish drinking game?" He suggested, and Hawke grinned widely.  
"Now that's more like it!"

And so the evening went on, with more talking and reminiscing on old times. Despite his best efforts, one drink turned into two, then three, until before he realised it the tavern was emptying out and the four of them were still gathered around the table, a frighteningly large array of empty tankards and bottles surrounding them.  
"Is he alright?"  
Cullen muttered, looking to Lyendrin with vague concern somewhere in the haze of his mind, and the dwarf beside him only laughed.  
"Our dear Inquisitor can't hold his liquor."  
"Mn can!" The elf argued, stumbling slightly as he stood from his chair. "Watch this!"  
Cullen felt the draw in his bones as Lyendrin began the spell and the familiar panic suddenly seized his chest, sobering him up enough to put a stop to the magic.  
It was harder, without the lyrium to draw from, pushing back against the mage's instincts with nothing but yourself. The Inquisitor was beyond drunk though, and simply frowned and looked to him with a pout as the spell faltered.  
"Hey, 'snot fair!" He protested but Hawke grabbed him by the shoulder and eased him back into his seat.

"No, I hate to say it- but Cully's right."  
Hawke replied, not seeming anywhere near as inebriated as he should be for the number of drinks he'd had. If Cullen had drunk half as much he'd be under the table, but the man seemed only a little unsteady in his words and his movements, while Cullen himself could already predict the hangover that would assault him the next morning.  
"Magic while drunk never ends well, I learned that the hard way. Multiple times."  
"Multiple times?" Cullen questioned with a raised brow, and Hawke only shrugged.  
"'m a slow learner."  
Cullen laughed at that, harder than he had in a while. It was a novel idea, to be sitting and drinking with two mages, one Dalish and the other Thedran Hawke no less, and yet here he was, enjoying himself in good company. As he raised his head he saw Lyendrin looking somewhat pleased with himself, through his drunken haze.

"I think it might be time to call it a night." Varric suggested, wobbling slightly as he hopped down from his chair.  
"I'll take Hawke back to his room if you take Pointy."  
It took Cullen a few seconds to realise the suggestion was aimed at him, at which point he turned with what he hoped was a shrug.  
"He seems alright to me." He said, looking over to where Hawke and Lyendrin were now having their own hushed conversation, leaning on one another to keep upright.  
"Trust me, I've been drinking with Hawke for years. He seems fine now, but if we're not careful I'll find him tomorrow passed out in the great hall with his small clothes on one of the statues."  
Cullen had horrible visions for a moment of the tongue lashing Josephine would give them if any visiting nobles saw that scene, and nodded his agreement.

His armour clunked as he stood, weighing heavy on his shoulders and exaggerating every misstep. He regretted not removing it earlier, now dreading the task of trying to undo the straps and buckles himself in the state he was in, or faced with the worse thought of sleeping in his full plate.  
It wouldn't be the first time, but he got precious little sleep these days as it was, and he'd really rather not lose another night to his own foolishness.  
He watched as Varric tugged on Hawke's belt until he was convinced to follow him out of the tavern door, and then turned his attention to the incredibly inebriated Inquisitor.

"Come on, L- Ly- Inquisitor." He stammered, eventually giving up on trying to pronounce the unfamiliar syllables in his drunken state.  
The elven man hummed in satisfaction as Cullen pulled him to his feet, giggling as he was shepherded towards the door.  
"It's like Haven." He mumbled as they made their way across to the stairs, and Cullen took a firm grip on his arm to try and ensure he didn't tumble off them. "You came back for me then too, carried me through the snow."  
"O' course." Cullen replied. "Couldn't leave you behind."  
Lyendrin suddenly leaned his weight against him in a way that almost made them both stumble into a wall, resting his head against Cullen's armoured shoulder.  
"You.. you're a good man, Cullen." He slurred as they made their way through the mostly empty main hall. "'M sorry I didn't trust you before"

Cullen paused outside the door to the Inquisitor's quarters, leaning a moment on the wooden doorframe as the world tilted precariously.  
"You didn't trust me?"  
When he had first arrived at Haven, Lyendrin had made no secret of the fact that he disliked working with humans, and Cullen really couldn't blame him given the way many of them had treated him at first. But he'd never been anything but friendly towards them personally, in fact rather a little over-friendly in a way that Cullen hadn't felt brave enough to bring up until he was at least five tankards in.  
"But.. all the flirting..."  
Lyendrin let out a snort of laughter, gripping the front of Cullen's breastplate and pulling himself closer.  
"Well, yeah, I flirted because you're a hunk, Cullen!"  
He felt his face flush harder than just the effect of the alcohol, but already Lyendrin was pulling back, still laughing and continuing on as if nothing had happened.

"But my mother always said... she said-" He fanned out his fingers on either side of his face in a haphazard pattern, attempting to imitate whatever tattoos she had and putting on a truly terrible falsetto voice. "Don't go near templars! They'll take you and snap your staff and lock you up and.. and dock your ears and.. stuff."  
"I wouldn't-"  
He followed the Inquisitor up the final flight of stairs, attempting to interject, but Lyendrin quickly overrode him.  
"I know, I know. She was just tryna scare me. So overprotective! Wouldn't even let me leave the clan for yeeeeears."  
He flopped over backwards onto the bed, giving Cullen a sudden pang of panic as he narrowly avoided smacking his head on the wooden headboard.  
"Didn't want me to go to the conclave either, I had to beg for days. Ha! Maybe I should have listened."

He closed his eyes for a moment, before snapping them open and lurching upright, putting a hand to his forehead.  
"Delavir.. Herald's rest.. I'm not getting any pala rest." He muttered to no one in particular and Cullen found himself trying hard not to laugh once more.  
"You should probably try and get some sleep."  
He suggested and Lyendrin nodded, and then proceeded to sit on the edge of the bed staring into space, as if he'd forgotten exactly how.  
"Do... you need some help?"  
"No. Yes. Maybe? I.. I don't know."  
Lyendrin muttered with a vacant, tired expression, and Cullen sighed with a smile and made his way over to the bed.

"Did you have a good time?" Lyendrin asked as Cullen tried to tug his shirt over his head without them both ending up on the floor.  
"Yes. I did."  
It surprised him how easily the answer came to him, so long since he'd last let himself relax like this in the company of friends.  
So long since he'd even had friends he could be in the company of.  
"Good." The Inquisitor flopped back onto the sheets once more with a sigh, and Cullen decided it was probably best to leave him where he was until he had got some sleep and sobered up a little. He could send someone else to check on him in the morning.

"You're a good friend, Cullen. I wanted you to have some fun. You need it."  
"I-" Cullen started, and then stopped, pausing at the top of the stairs where the Inquisitor's comment had caught him.  
Muddled shame began to rise at the reminder that the Inquisitor was aware of his issues, his failings, but despite what he knew... he was trying to help.  
Faltering as it might have been, he'd made the effort to spend time with him, to pull him out of the armoured shell he'd retreated into for his own protection.  
Maybe it was time to start letting people in.  
"Thank you." He said eventually. "I think I did."

As he made his way back to his room, his head buzzed with a pleasant cotton wool drunkenness that he knew he'd pay for in the morning, when the sun glared through the cracks in his old bedroom ceiling and scouts with armfulls of reports hammered far too loudly on his door. But he found he couldn't regret a second of the time they'd spent that evening.  
The alcohol didn't work as a crutch to fill the void the lyrium had left in him, it never had, but he began to think that the friendship just might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in hearing more about my Inquisitor Lyendrin check out my work "A new life" for oneshots surrounding him  
> This piece is also posted there since it's technically about both of them


End file.
